


whenever you want to begin

by caramelle



Series: whenever you want to begin [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, honestly idk i just really wanted to write a bellarke breakup fic, plus lovers to friends to awkward emotionally constipated limbo, way more angst than i'd intended and i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:19:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4146123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>strategic inflection point = "an event that changes the way we think and act"</p>
<p>The story of Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin's relationship. The strategic inflection point? Their break-up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. breaking things that i should keep

**Author's Note:**

> i couldn't get the idea of an angsty bellarke break-up fic out of my head, so i wrote a little thing on a whim and it sort of turned into a nearly 4k word monster (and counting) because apparently i am unable to deal with unhappy endings within a decent word count, even when it comes to drabbles
> 
> (title from Hiding by Florence + the Machine)

**27 DAYS AFTER THE BREAK-UP**

 

It’s probably a good sign that she’s gotten round to actually doing laundry instead of slipping back into the comforting but debilitating hoodie-sweatpants combo. _One step closer to normality,_ she thinks scornfully as she’s shoving a hand down pockets and yanking sleeves inside out.

 

She’s managed to make most of her clothes pull double duty by calling in sick to work for most of the first week and avoiding all social activities the rest of the time. She’s pretty sure she’s worn the same denim button down on at least nine separate occasions in the last four weeks. By the second week, it’d gotten too hard trying to come up with excuses to put Octavia and Raven off getting her out of her apartment, so she’d taken to turning off her phone the second she got home. Even the messages from Jasper and Monty didn’t really make her feel any better _(“clarke this is jasper ur friend whom u r supposed to care abt pls reply asap :(((”_ , _“Not to stress you out or anything, but it wld be rly nice to know whether you are alive at least”_ ).

 

She emerges from the tiny space that doubles as her laundry and storage room, and collapses onto the couch. Just as she’s contemplating whether three in the afternoon is too early for her first glass of wine for the day, her phone buzzes rather obnoxiously. Suppressing the groan that had swelled up at the sound, she pulls her bag onto her lap from where she’d abandoned it on the other end of her couch and starts rifling through it, sighing heavily when the vibrations begin again and _has silent mode always been so LOUD?_ Her fingers finally close on the offending device, and she yanks it out of her bag, squinting slightly at Octavia’s name splashed across the too-bright screen.

 

**i want to ask u to come to**

**dinner w us but idk if you’ll**

**even see this anytime soon so.**

**anyway don’t forget,**

**sendoff party for bell tmr!**

**raven says if u don’t show for**

**that at least she’s gg to come**

**to ur place n drag u out herself**

She wants to respond, to explain herself to her friends. _Where the fuck would I even begin._

 

Her phone buzzes again.

 

**Clarke, babe, I totally get tt you’re**

**still going thru a ton of shit but**

**TRUST ME when I say tt if you don’t**

**show tmr, you ARE going to regret**

**it for the rest of your life. Love you.**

She pictures it for a second — Raven barging through her door in four-inch heels, wrapped in a dress that shows off her toned arms with her dark hair swept over one shoulder, having to physically drag one of her best friends out of a truly pathetic funk. She buries her head in a throw pillow, groaning loudly.

 

**i’m sorry. i’ll be there.**

****

* * *

 

 

****

**37 DAYS BEFORE THE BREAK-UP**

“I’ll bet you anything Franco only did the movie because he basically got to be a monkey’s uncle,” Bellamy manages around a mouthful of fried rice, jabbing his fork at the television screen. Clarke nearly chokes on her water and prods him sharply with a bare foot.

 

They’re curled up on the couch over a few cartons of Chinese, congratulating themselves on the “incredible, fantastic sex, truly groundbreaking” (as Bellamy had proclaimed afterward, while Clarke sniggered so hard she forgot to blush). It’s only been a few days since they’d spent any proper time together — she’s been driven near out of her mind with preparations for the upcoming exhibition and he’s been occupied with “thesis road bumps”, as he likes to call them when he’s crawling into bed late at night, wrapping an arm around her barely conscious form.

 

Now, with the exhibition finally over and his first draft officially turned in, they’re free to enjoy their weekend and each other to the fullest. She’d nearly forgotten how _good_ it feels to just _be_ with him. She can’t help but sigh at random intervals, catching herself staring at his profile while his attention is directed elsewhere, revelling in how easy it is to just reach out and touch him — a hand on the back of his neck, fingers tangling into his dark curls, an indulgent nuzzle into his shoulder, an arm thrown out across his torso as they lay together, naked and satiated, listening to the sounds of each other’s breathing.

 

Even now, though her hands are occupied with feeding her ( _ravenous_ ) self, she’s pressed against his side from shoulder to hip, her knees drawn up on the couch to support the carton of chow mein she’s steadily emptying. She nudges him as James Franco brushes his hand over the heavily CGI’d palm of Andy Serkis onscreen, and swaps her noodles for his rice.

 

“How the hell does he _do_ that,” Bellamy demanded, digging into the noodles with no less gusto than he’d shown the fried rice. “How the hell does he not say one word throughout pretty much the entire two hours but still make you _feel_ things.”

 

Clarke shrugs, reaching across him for an egg roll from the third carton he’s tucked between him and the couch arm for easy access. “Maybe Andy Serkis is just one of those guys whose emotional capacity actually surpasses that of, like, a spoon.”

 

She grins as he elbows her lightly, enjoying the sound of his laughter as he attempts to steal her egg roll.

 

 _It can’t possibly get any better than this_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**53 DAYS AFTER THE BREAK-UP**

Clarke stumbles through the door, cursing under her breath as she nearly drops her keys in an attempt to save her bag from falling off her shoulder (she is _not_ risking a damaged laptop — do you have any idea when the last time she’d backed up her hard drive _was_?). She sets her bag down on the kitchen counter and automatically heads straight for the fridge, pulling the door open and reaching for the wine bottle before she stills in realisation.

 

 _One._ Her vision is fine. No tears welling up, clouding up her sight.

 

 _Two._ Her breathing is fine. No shallowing out the way it’s been the minute she’s safely alone in her apartment.

 

 _Three._ Her hands are… well, they’re not entirely steady. But the trembling’s not as bad as before.

 

It’s the first time in weeks that she’s walked through her front door and hasn’t felt completely overwhelmed by the immediate, urgent need to self-administer soothing doses of alcohol and other aids ( _Scrubs_ has been especially comforting of late).

 

She slowly withdraws her hand, eases the fridge door closed, takes a deep breath, and pours herself a glass of water instead.

 

One fortifying shower later, she’s on the couch with her phone, Zach Braff’s voice lilting from the television as she scrolls through messages she’d neglected to respond to throughout the day. She sends off a couple responses to Raven and Monty, decides it’s not completely heartless of her to ignore one from Jasper that consists solely of several lines’ worth of heart emojis in various colours, and thanks the heavens that her friends have stopped asking her if she’s okay or how she’s feeling because she truly doesn’t know which feels worse, choosing to ignore their well-intentioned messages or replying _“i’m okay, thanks”_.

 

Just as she’s about to toss her phone aside in favour of whipping up a giant mug of hot chocolate — _Actually, dunking a teabag in hot water would be a lot less effort_ … _but **chocolate**! _ — she spots the little red alert on her email inbox. Frowning slightly, she taps on the envelope icon.

 

 

From: **Bellamy** **Blake** _< bellamyblake23@gmail.com>_

Sent 27 June 2015 12.21am

To: **Clarke Griffin** _< clarke.griffin@gmail.com>_

 **Subject:** <NO SUBJECT>

 

_Athens is amazing. Fellowship’s going really well, really exciting stuff ahead. Hope you’re good._

_Take care._

The room is still for a minute. Even the sounds of John C. McGinley’s biting insults seem to fall flat under the weight of the silence roaring in her ears.

 

 _One._ She turns the display on her phone off and sets it aside, rising from her seat evenly.

 

 _Two._ She makes her way to the kitchen, unhurriedly.

 

 _Three._ She tugs the fridge door open and reaches past the milk for the wine bottle.

 

 

* * *

  

**91 DAYS BEFORE THE BREAK-UP**

“Of course I didn’t fucking call my ex to come meet me at a _grocery store_ —”

 

“I didn’t _say_ you called her, I just said you guys sure spent a good amount of time ‘catching up’—”

 

“We’re _friends_!”

 

“So it’s alright for you to spend _ten minutes_ in the pasta aisle just ‘catching up’ with your _friend_ , but I get _one_ text from Finn and it’s fucking D-Day?!”

 

“That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

 

“Isn’t it.”

 

“Echo and I were together _four months_ , we never even _thought_ about marriage—”

 

“Oh, yeah, it’s definitely _not_ weird at all to want to stop in public to spill the intimate details of your life to someone you haven’t ever _thought_ about marrying, just spent four months _banging_ —”

 

“It wasn’t like that!”

 

“Well it sounds _exactly_ like—”

 

“She wanted to know if it’d been you all along, alright?!”

 

“… What?”

 

“She—fuck. _Fuck!_ ”

 

“Bellamy Blake, what the hell is go—”

 

“She asked if the reason me and her’d never worked out was because I’d been in love with you all along.”

 

“… Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well. Um. That must’ve been—”

 

“I told her yes.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“I told her yes, I was in love with you, I _am_ in love with you and I was an idiot and _I love you_.”

 

“… What—”

 

“So, _no_ , not much  _intimate_ sharing going on, mostly because she’d known the whole time.”

 

“You're seriously telling me 'I love you' for the first time during a fight?”

 

“Clarke, are you—”

 

“I love you.”

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me. Now get over here and fucking kiss me.”

 

* * *

 

 

**334 DAYS BEFORE THE BREAK-UP**

“Come on, Bellamy, fucking _pick up_ ,” Clarke growls at her phone balanced precariously on her knee while she attempts to make a left turn without killing anybody, including herself — _especially_ not herself, because Octavia would no doubt kick up an almighty fuss if anything happened to one of her best friends on her birthday.

 

She lets loose a stream of frankly appalling curses that would no doubt turn her mother’s hair white had she borne witness to the sight of her only offspring mouthing off like a sailor. Just as she’s blindly fumbling with her phone in hopes of hitting the call button again, it starts to go off, Bellamy’s name flashing up on the screen. She immediately hits the speaker button.

 

“ _Finally!_ ”

 

“Relax, princess, missed you too.”

 

“ _Not_ the time, Blake,” she snaps, scowling at the car in front of hers as it reverses into an empty lot, _horridly_ slow and probably on purpose, she thinks. “This is officially DEFCON 5. Or 1. Whichever’s worse.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I just saw your two hundred messages. Sorry, I was with—”

 

“Don’t know, don’t care — I need you.”

 

She hears the muffled sounds of him clearing his throat as she throws her gearstick into reverse, swerving violently into the first empty space she sees. “What’s going on?”

 

“I told you we shouldn’t have let Jasper handle the cake. I _said_ , didn’t I! I fucking  _said_ we shouldn’t leave any planning shit to him!”

 

She turns away from her car and freezes. A family of four is staring at her from where they’re loading shopping bags into their minivan, the two young boys gawking openly at her with their mouths agape. She quickly recovers, throwing them an innocuous smile as she hurries past.

 

“Oh. Shit.”

 

She huffs, roughly shouldering her purse as she stalks toward the mall building in three-inch heels. _The one fucking time I decide not to wear flats._ “‘Shit’ is indeed right, Blake, because if we have no cake for Octavia on _her birthday_ , **_you_** are going to be responsible for handling the emotional and psychological _shitstorm_ that _your sister_ is sure as hell gonna—“

 

“Sure, princess, when she’s all sweet and stuff she’s _your_ best friend, but when she’s in holy terror mode she’s _my_ sister—”

 

“ _Focus,_ Blake!”

 

“Fuck. Right. Okay, where are you now?”

 

“Just got to the mall.”

 

“The mall? What are you—”

 

“Because guess who told Raven he’d get the group present too.”

 

“… Fucking Jordan.”

 

“Hence.”

 

“Okay. Alright, no problem. We’ve got an hour, don’t we?”

 

“ _I’m_ supposed to be Octavia’s ride to the restaurant,” she hisses as inconspicuously as she can while rocking a cobalt blue cocktail dress and smoky eye, ignoring the equal distribution of concerned and afraid looks she’s attracting on her warpath. She immediately ducks into the first novelty store she sees that doesn’t look like it’s patronised exclusively by twelve-year-olds and guys who still live in their mother’s basement.

 

“Okay. So I’ll call Raven and tell her she’s picking Octavia up,” he decides firmly. “I’m on my way to the mall right now, you go find a present, I’ll pick up a cake and we’ll meet at the mall entrance in twenty minutes. Alright, princess?”

 

She exhales sharply, closing her eyes for a brief second. “Alright. Okay. Twenty minutes.”

 

“See you in a bit, princess. _Breathe._ ”

 

She hangs up, feeling her ear throb a little in protest at the force with which she’d pressed her phone to it. _Twenty minutes. You can do this, Clarke. Time to ma’am up._ She decides to take Bellamy’s advice, pulling in a deep, bracing gulp of air before she squares her shoulders and sets about finding the best damn last minute twenty-third birthday present for her best friend that anyone could possibly find.

 

Five hours later, she’s surrounded by seven of her favourite people in the homely bar they always seem to end up at every time they’re together, in stitches at Jasper’s pathetically earnest attempt at unseating the group’s arm-wrestling champion, Raven Reyes. Her eyes meet Bellamy’s across the table and she’s suddenly struck by the way his dark eyes are lit up, highlighting the different shades and streaks of warm brown. He’s looking right back at her, features still bright with the leftover glow of hearty laughter. She shakes her head slightly and grins at him blithely before turning her focus back to the sounds of Jasper, Miller and Monty clamouring for a Lincoln-Raven showdown.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**THE BREAK-UP — DAY OF**

 

He’s not really meeting her eyes, and she tenses slightly. She wonders briefly if there’s something he’s not telling her, if she should be worried.

 

“It’s six months, Clarke.”

 

All of a sudden, she's rooted to the spot. All the warmth drains from her, leaving the smile on her face feeling hard and plastic. There’s a lump in her throat, and she hates that it’s there. “It’s a good opportunity. It’s an amazing opportunity.”

 

“It is.”

 

Standing there in her kitchen, she thinks she knows what it’d feel like to be trapped in quicksand. She swallows hard, and forces herself to meet his gaze.

 

“You should go.”

 

He’s surprised, she thinks — or something like it. She doesn’t quite know. She’s not sure she’s ever seen that expression on his face.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s what you’ve always wanted.”

 

Bellamy says nothing. His eyes are fixed on hers, unmoving, and yet, she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him more conflicted. She sincerely hopes her carefully steadied gaze isn’t betraying the fact that she feels exactly the way he looks right now.

 

“Six months.” His voice doesn’t go up at the end, and yet it doesn’t sound like a statement.

 

She takes a deep breath.

 

“You’re going to learn so much. And you’re going to get so much out of it. This is—“ she clears her throat slightly, fighting off the flash of panic telling her _you’re not fooling anyone he sees right through you he knows he knows he knows_ “—this is _it_ , Bell. The door that’s gonna take you exactly where you’ve wanted to go your entire life.”

 

He’s silent. She doesn’t have to ask if he agrees with her.

 

She turns back to the sink, roughly nudging the tap on and blindly reaching for a plate, a fork, anything to keep her hands occupied. She can _feel_ him shifting agitatedly behind her, one foot to the other. She pictures him rubbing his face, his forehead and mussing up his curls the way he does when he’s uncomfortable or frustrated or upset. Or hurt.

 

He speaks, and his voice is huskier than usual. “You’re… okay with this?”

 

She forces a laugh, and hopes it sounds lighter than she feels. “Of course I’m—Bell, it’s more than okay, it’s—this is _wonderful_.” She wishes she could give herself a shake, she wishes she wasn’t able to feel him watching her so closely. _Fucking get it together, Griffin._

He clears his throat. “So … I’m assuming you have a Skype account?”

 

Well. That was the last thing she’d been expecting. All at once, she realises what he’s thinking, what he’s saying, and for some reason she suddenly feels ten times worse _._

 

“If you don’t, we should set you up one. Gonna be kind of hard to, you know. Keep this going. I mean, six months apart…” She hears him laugh, sheepish and sincere, and _fuck_ if her heart doesn’t _ache_.

 

Now she’s clearing her throat, but it’s more of a stall than anything. “I do. I mean, I have one—I have Skype.”

 

She suddenly remembers she’s holding a plate under running water. _Don’t you break anything now_.

 

“Well, good — because honestly, I’m probably going to go crazy if I can’t see you for six months, princess,” he says, laughing again.

 

She abruptly shuts off the water and sets the plate down. She stands there, letting her dripping hands hover over the dirty dishes in the sink.

 

“Actually, I think you might prefer if we didn’t Skype or anything while you’re there.”

 

The silence that follows sends goose bumps up and down her spine and arms. It’s too thick, the tension suddenly almost suffocating.

 

“What d’you mean?”

 

 _Just do it. Quick and painless._ She reaches for a dishtowel to dry her hands off, turning to face him and speaking as slowly and clearly as she can because _no way in hell_ is her voice going to tremble or crack on her _now_. “I think it would be better for both of us if—”

 

He starts forward. “Clarke—”

 

“If we just called it quits. You know. While we’re—while we’re ahead.”

 

Her hands are as dry as they’ll ever be, but she can’t bring herself to let go of the dishtowel, and she definitely can’t bring herself to look him in the eyes. She _can’t_ lose her nerve now.

 

“Why?” His voice is low, and there’s a note of something she hates hearing, especially from him — pleading.

 

“Bellamy, trying to do long-distance is—” thoughts of Finn and Raven flash through her mind, and she shakes her head at the irrationality of mentioning Finn’s name to Bellamy in order to prove a point, pushing herself to continue. “We’ve been dating a few _months_. Not like we’re, I don’t know, about to get _married_ or anything.” She forces another laugh, and this time even she hears the strain in the sound. “We call this now, we go back to being friends, there’s no resentment, no bad blood, no tension. It’s better this way.” She shrugs, and the action feels horribly artificial. She sets the dishtowel down, wrapping her arms around her front as she finally allows herself to look at him.

 

She doesn’t tell him what she’s certain they both already know. Thousands of miles of separation over half a year — she would be too lonely, too sad, she would be mad at him for not being able to pay attention to her, they would get frustrated by the time difference and each other, he would be surrounded by hundreds of pretty European girls and he’s only _human_ and she swore to herself that Finn would be the first and last time she would ever be cheated on.

 

She doesn’t tell him she should’ve known better than to assume she wouldn’t have had to let go of him sooner or later, that this kind of bliss could last. 

 

She doesn’t tell him that if she can’t be with him, she has no choice but to do anything, everything in her power to protect their friendship because she can’t, _can’t_ do without him in her life.

 

His eyes are searching hers, desperate. His hands are clenched tightly at his sides, quivering slightly. She knows it’s because he’s trying to stop himself from reaching for her, and she shoves down the urge to reach for him first. _It’s better this way._

 

Hours later, alone in her own bed for the first time in months, she cries herself to sleep for the first time in nearly three years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously considering continuing the fic, already have a few scenes plotted out but still waiting to see what pops up. thoughts would be helpful, thank you very much!
> 
> UPDATE: i WILL be continuing the fic! there will be at least one more chapter, depending on the monster that dwells in the swamp of angst that is my brain. hopefully the monster doesn't take more than a week to get the next part up! thank you.


	2. i know that you're hiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when the two variables, Bellamy and Clarke, round the bend after the strategic inflection point (and beyond).

**401 DAYS AFTER THE BREAK-UP**

 

"I CALL GODFATHER!" 

 

Raven smacks an over-excited Jasper on the back of his head, grinning at his exclamation of pain and surprise. "As if. I'm definitely ahead of you in line, Jordan." 

 

"Raven Reyes, _you_ are going to be called in for godmother duty the next time, for sure," Octavia says, beaming, before she turns a narrowed gaze on Jasper. "And you. _You_ have the single, special job of making sure anything even _remotely_ explosive or destructive never, _ever_ makes it within _twenty feet_ of my child."

 

Raven laughs heartily at the pronouncement, leaning into a smiling Wick as Jasper visibly deflates in his seat, pouting exaggeratedly as Monty pats him on the back, his sulking protest of "it was _one_ time" drowned out by Miller's dramatic _"OHHHH!"_ , complete with both hands thrown up in the air. Glowing with amusement, Octavia exchanges a glance with Lincoln who hasn't seemed to take his eyes off his petite fiancée the entire time. At his slight nod, she turns back to the group, her eyes fixing firmly on Clarke. 

 

"Actually, we were really hoping that you'd agree to be godmother to our first kid," she says carefully, her voice deliberately clear of the coaxing-pleading note she was notorious for employing whenever she wanted something. (Miller had been known to pull Lincoln aside and make him promise that he would never become president, because he truly feared what Octavia's powers of persuasion were capable of on a global scale.) 

 

Clarke blinked at the brunette, trying to process her words through the haze of delight and excitement that still lingered. She was vaguely aware that everyone was waiting for her response — even Jasper had shut up at this point, and was staring at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. 

 

"Um—" she starts, and clears her throat before refocusing on her best friend, "I thought—I mean, wouldn't you want your brother to—" 

 

"Oh, we've already asked Bell," Octavia smiles brightly, waving a blithe hand. "So now the little terror's got a godfather who's sure to spoil him to no end."

 

"And we absolutely cannot have that," Lincoln agrees gravely. "Look how the last kid spoiled by Bellamy Blake turned out."

 

This earns him a mock gasp and sharp jab in the side from his wife-to-be while the group bursts out in laughter. Jasper guffaws particularly loudly, nearly knocking over Monty's drink and drawing dirty looks from no less than four other bar patrons in the process. 

 

"Yeah, so he or she is gonna need at least _one_ godparent who's actually going to wanna talk shit through instead of just buying presents to make ’em feel better," Octavia says with a roll of her eyes, but the loving tone reserved only for her big brother resounded in her voice, plain as day. "So... what d'you say?"

 

Clarke looks up at the girl who’s been one of her closest friends for nearly six years — now much more a woman than a girl, really, her eyes clear and bright, her smile warm and genuine, so confident and comfortable in her skin and her surroundings. Suddenly, her heart swells with pride and love, and she can't help the brilliant smile that spreads across her face. 

 

"I would be honoured." 

  

 

* * *

 

 

 

**313 DAYS BEFORE THE BREAK-UP**

  

Bellamy gives her a funny look, and she’s momentarily thrown off by it, her laughter quickly trailing off — has she overstepped? _Shit, real smooth, Griffin_. This whole no-longer-constantly-trying-to-start-World-War-3-with-Bellamy thing still feels new to her, and she’s not sure how far they’re allowed to take jokes with each other yet. Not in a non-antagonistic sense, at least.

 

“Well that would be true, except Echo and I aren’t together anymore.”

 

_Oh._

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah. Been over for a couple of weeks now.”

 

She bites her lip doubtfully as her mind runs through a list of things people normally say at such a time. _Oh, that’s too bad. I’m sorry, she was nice. Are you okay? What happened?_ God, every one sounds more terrible than the last. She finally decides _fuck it,_   _sometimes honesty is the best damn policy_ and shrugs.

 

“Well, this just got awkward.”

 

To her surprise, he actually laughs. She’s not about to admit it to him anytime soon, but the smile on her own face is made up more of nervous relief than an actual desire to share in his apparent good humour. “No fear, princess. No love lost there. Neither of us was really feeling it, so we decided… fuck it. Why bother.”

 

“ _Feeling_ it? I’m sorry, when did Frat Boy Bellamy turn up here? And _can_ we get him to leave, I don’t think he’d be comfortable having _brunch_ with his sister _and_ her best friend, nonetheless.”

 

He narrows his dark eyes, still glinting with warm amusement. “Cute.”

 

Octavia reappears at the table, tucking her phone into her pocket. “God, seriously can’t _wait_ till I’m not the new girl at the gym anymore,” she grumbles, sliding back into the booth beside Clarke. “Everyone keeps fucking calling on me when they’ve got—what’s going on?”

 

Bellamy raises an eyebrow at his sister’s suspicious back-and-forth looks at him and Clarke. “Besides your sudden _True Detective_ mood swing, you mean?”

 

Clarke snickers outright as she digs into her second pancake, before glancing up and catching the way Octavia’s brows snap together in confusion. _Jesus, if O thinks any harder, I’ll probably be able to actually hear the gears turning soon enough._ She sighs, bringing her coffee cup to her lips with her free hand. “What, O?”

 

“Oh my God.”

 

Bellamy glances at Clarke in bemusement. She frowns at him over the rim of her cup.

 

“Oh my _God_. Are you guys actually _friends_ now?”

 

There’s a brief pause. Bellamy is looking at Clarke, but he’s not saying anything. For half a second, she wonders if there’s a serious answer to Octavia’s question. Then, she deliberately hums, attracting the attention of both Blakes.

 

“Well, I don’t know about that,” she muses breezily, setting her cup down. “But I guess his face is tolerable enough now.”

 

She immediately considers taking it back when Octavia shrieks, ecstatic and _far too loud_ for eleven A.M. on a Sunday morning, and whips her phone back out to start texting what seems like everyone in the universe to let them know that _“GUYS BELL N CLARKE R FRIENDS NOW LIKE TALKING LAUGHING CASUAL CONVO FRIENDS THERE IS A GOD”_.

 

She doesn’t, though.

 

Not even when Jasper texts her and Bellamy a message consisting of nothing but seventeen crying emojis.

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

**29 DAYS AFTER THE BREAK-UP**

“Are you _sure_ you’re not going to come?” Raven looks at the blonde staring determinedly at her laptop screen. “He’s going away for six whole months, Clarke.”

 

“Raven, I can’t,” she says. “If there’s even gonna be a chance in _hell_ that I’m going to actually prove myself to Anya, I really have to get started on this, _now_. Barely made it through the last exhibition as it was.” Acutely conscious of her best friend’s unrelenting scrutiny, she presses her lips together. “Besides, we talked last night.”

 

The brunette scoffs, turning the already-low volume on the television even lower as she shifts on the couch so she’s directly facing Clarke. “Yeah, for all of what, twenty seconds?”

 

Clarke decides that pretending to read the spreadsheet open on her screen is much easier than coming up with a satisfying response. Her best friend sighs, leaning her head against the back of the couch.

 

“Clarke.”

 

 _Don’t look her in the eyes. She’ll see right into your soul,_ Clarke warns herself. “Yes?”

 

“You’re supposed to be _friends_. You’re really not gonna take a couple hours out, just to go to the airport—”

 

“And do _what_ , exactly?” Clarke bursts out, shoving her computer off her lap agitatedly. “Hang round, make small talk, watch him lug a suitcase off to Europe and just _say goodbye_? Well it’s _not_ good— _I’m_ not good! It’s—” She casts around, suddenly realising she’s near gasping for air. Fuck, she’s _winded_. Before she can bend over heaving, she finds herself wrapped up tighter than she’s been in what feels like forever, face pressed into the warm, comforting mass of her best friend’s dark chocolate hair.

 

“I know.” Raven’s voice is soft, washing over her. It makes her think of the effect when one lights a candle in a dark room, instantaneously bathing its occupants in gentle yellow warmth, spreading throughout the surrounding space. She sags into the embrace, wracked by exhaustion, or grief — she doesn’t really know the difference between the two anymore.

 

The room is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of  _Orange is the New Black_ still playing on the television screen and two sets of breathing — one deep and steady, one hitching every now and then.

 

When Clarke finally feels like she’s able to draw a breath without having to squeeze her eyes shut to clamp down on the swell of tears threatening to spill over her waterline, the circle of Raven’s arms loosens slightly, and she pulls back, hands resting on Clarke’s arms, a grounding weight.

 

“I’ll tell him you couldn’t be there. On one condition.”

 

Raven dips her head, making sure Clarke meets her eyes, making sure her friend is absolutely clear of how serious she is.

 

“You have to be honest with me from now on.”

 

A million excuses spring up in Clarke’s head. She’d already promised herself she would _never_ drag another friendship into the mess she’d managed to make of this one.

 

Raven huffs, slightly exasperated. “Keep telling the rest of the guys whatever you want to. Even Octavia, if you have to. I’d want to protect her, too. But when it comes to you and me… you have to be able to talk with _someone_ , Clarke. And avoiding us and avoiding everything else is fine, whatever you need for now — but I will be _damned_ if I let you spiral further into some really, truly self-destructive shit.”

 

A slight smirk shows up on her face at that, and Clarke can’t help but respond with a shaky smile of her own. They fall silent for a few seconds.

 

“Hey, Raven?”

 

The brunette raises a brow patiently.

 

“Even if you hadn’t offered… I’d still pick you first.”

 

Raven rolls her eyes, grinning impishly. “Of course you would. I’m _awesome_.”

 

 

* * *

  

 

**305 DAYS AFTER THE BREAK-UP**

“I mean, what do you even really _know_ about this girl?” Raven persists, hand curling around her drink.

 

Clarke resists the urge to groan, blowing out an exasperated breath as she pushes her hair out of her face. “I _told_ you. She’s a lawyer, and a damn good one if Google’s still halfway reliable.”

 

“Since when do you go for the corporate climbers?” Raven pushes, dark brows furrowed as she props an elbow on the back of her barstool. “Thought you artist-museum types were supposed to be more sensitive or some shit. Aren’t _lawyers_ about as cutthroat as they get?”

 

“Lexa’s tough, sure. She can come off almost abrasive sometimes. And she sometimes seems a little… “

 

“Impersonal? Frigid?” Raven supplies helpfully, eliciting a roll of the eyes from the blonde.

 

“ _Detached_ ,” Clarke decides.

 

“So how the hell does _that_ work?” Raven demands.

 

_She doesn’t remind me of him._

Clarke shakes her head. “That’s not all there is to her. She’s smart. Funny, in that kind of acerbic way that either gets you going or sets you on edge. She can be… sympathetic. Almost tender, sometimes.” She shrugs, raising her glass for another sip. “She can surprise you.”

 

Raven doesn’t seem convinced, frowning contemplatively as she dangles one long leg over the other.

 

“I don’t know, babe. If you guys were just fucking around or something, I’d get that — definitely a _way_ more fun distraction than ten consecutive hours of Netflix and Cheetos. But if this isn’t _just_ a distraction to one of you, then that shit gets deep, Clarke.”

 

The blonde sighs, aimlessly playing with the tiny straw that came with her drink. “Lexa’s not just a distraction to me.”

 

Raven fixes her with a serious look, all humour and laughter dissipated from her expression within a second. “No bullshit, Clarke.”

 

Clarke returns the look as solemnly as she can, considering she’s nearing the end of her third gin tonic. “No bullshit, Raven.”

 

The brunette studies her for a few seconds, then nods slightly, shoulders easing up as she relaxes back into her seat, seemingly satisfied with what she sees. “Though you know, even if she _was_ just a fuck-around, I don’t think anyone could really blame you. That picture you showed me — girl is _hot_.”

 

Clarke snorts around the straw caught between her teeth. “Yeah, as if you _could_.”

 

Her best friend’s eyes snap to hers alertly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Clarke cocks a disbelieving brow at her. “Sex on the Beach? _Really_? Octavia and I both know for a _fact_ that that’s your I’m-getting-laid drink.” She smirks, relishing the gleeful delight at watching the brunette instantly transition into defensive mode.

 

“Well, not like you guys didn’t _know_ ,” she grumbles sullenly, hand falling away from her glass to support her chin from where her elbow’s planted on the bar top.

 

“Oh my God. Is—is Raven Reyes actually feeling _embarrassed_?” Clarke puts every ounce of dramatic ability she has into a mock gasp of shock, one hand splayed across her chest for added flair. “Could it be that Miss Reyes’ friend-with-benefits is possibly becoming _more_ than _just_ a friend?”

 

Raven narrows her eyes at the blonde in an attempt to quash the frankly indecent amount of fun her best friend seems to be having with her discomfort. “Can it, Griffin. Wick and I are most definitely still FWB status. In fact, I’d say most of the time it’s just B, no F.”

 

“ _Most_ of the time,” Clarke echoes sardonically, making zero effort to hide her full-on grin.

 

“It’s _not_ going to happen,” Raven insists, gesturing emphatically. “Trust me. Even if I _could_ tolerate his annoying smug ass enough for _that_ , I’d probably end up actually _killing_ him before we ever even get anywhere _near_ it. As in, with actual _murder_.”

 

Clarke hums indulgently, attention deliberately focused on waving over the bartender for another round. “Whatever you say, babe.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**232 DAYS BEFORE THE BREAK-UP**

  

“And then this _absolute dork_ said that Denzel would never top his _Hurricane_ role,” Clarke says loudly, jabbing a fork in the direction of the offender in question. “ _Hurricane_! God, it’s like you’ve never even _heard_ of _Training Day_.”

 

Bellamy scoffs around the mouthful of pasta he’s chewing, opting for a quick gulp of beer so the food goes down quicker. “Come on, princess, you just liked the fact that he was playing the whole ambiguously moral antihero-type character.”

 

“ _Yes_ , I did, and y’know who else did? Only the fucking _Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences_!”

 

Jasper suddenly jerks in his seat, blinking quickly to shake the blanked out look from his glassy eyes. Even Monty is unconcerned at the occurrence; lately, Jasper’s taken to zoning out anytime one of Clarke and Bellamy’s arguments veer into more substantial territory, which happens a lot more now that they actually have more substantial conversations.

 

Octavia rolls her eyes. “Okay, guys, we’re all really glad you enjoyed _The Equalizer_ and shit, but d’you mind sparing a thought for those who, I don’t know, don’t actually give a _fuck_?” She blinks innocently over the table at the simultaneously affronted gazes of her brother and best friend. “Maybe?”

 

Raven groans exaggeratedly. “Yes, _please_. Can we talk about something we all _actually_ care about now?”

 

“Preferably before Jasper zones out again,” Monty offers, still observing his best friend reorienting from the couple minutes spent in an abruptly ended catatonic trance.

 

Raven and Octavia exchange a very obvious, very conspiratorial glance before the younger Blake clears her throat delicately. “ _So_ , Bell, Clarke. You guys been hanging out a lot more now, huh?”

 

Both parties throw her bewildered frowns before looking at each other. “I guess,” Bellamy agrees, eyeing his smiling sister warily. “Why?”

 

Miller leans in, the picture of calm and nonchalance. “We all wanna know if you’re gonna start gettin’ it on or what.”

 

“MILLER!”

 

“ _Nathan Joseph Miller_ , I swear to God—”

 

“Ruined, _ruined_!”

 

Miller surveys the chaos of the combined Octavia-Raven-Jasper outburst bemusedly. “What? You guys were taking too long.”

 

Clarke snorts derisively, taking a swig from her own beer bottle. “Well you all can relax, we aren’t about to start ripping each other’s clothes off anytime soon. Right, Bell?”

 

“Not in public, at least,” he clarifies, in the flat tone he usually reserves for conversations he thinks are especially moronic. The two share a brief, caustic laugh, clinking their beer bottles heartily before returning to their plates.

 

The rest of the table is quiet, staring at them.

 

“She called him Bell,” Monty states, slightly stunned.

 

“ _Bell_ , I heard it,” Miller agrees, eyes darting back and forth between the two fervently.

 

Clarke looks at her two best friends and decides the twin glints in their eyes are far too dangerous to be left unattended. “Jesus, O, your boyfriend leaves town for _one week_ and we all have to sub in as entertainment in the meantime? And _you_ , Reyes—” she waves her fork in Raven’s direction, narrowing her eyes at the brunette’s widening smirk, “—first week at a new job’s usually slow, but are you _that_ bored?”

 

She glances at Bellamy, one side of his mouth upturned in that half-smile he wears so often around their friends, warm brown eyes sparkling in amusement. “We’re _friends_ , okay? Get over it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**225 DAYS AFTER THE BREAK-UP**

Clarke ducks into Lincoln’s kitchen, grateful for the brief respite from the commotion in the living room, most of which is really just Jasper and Raven yelling heatedly at each other over the official rules of flip cup. She trashes the empty wine bottle she’d snatched up as an excuse to leave the chaos, and reaches for a new one before starting to open random drawers in hopes of chancing upon a corkscrew. There’s a muffled sound behind her, and she pauses midway through searching what appears to be a drawer designated solely for chopsticks of varying designs and sizes — _what the actual **fuck** , Lincoln — _to glance back over her shoulder.

 

Bellamy smiles slightly, hands tucked into his jean pockets as he waits for her to notice his presence. “Looking for something, princess?”

 

She wills her voice not to waver, and turns back to her task, blindly pulling another drawer open. “Yeah, something to get at another bottle of wine with. Any idea where Lincoln keeps his wine openers?”

 

He moves towards her, and she suppresses the urge to move away to preserve a healthy distance between them. He reaches out to a row of hooks right above the drawers, and she flushes slightly as she finds herself staring at his exposed forearm. “Right here.” He hands her the wine opener, one hand still safely tucked away in a pocket.

 

“Thanks.” She forces herself to turn away from him and focus on the wine bottle instead. _You can fucking do casual, Griffin._ “So, happy to be home?”

 

“Very much, yeah.” He’s still standing there, just _watching_ her. It’s unnerving as hell. “Been back over a week now, but didn’t realise how much I’d really missed everyone until tonight.”

 

She lets out a brief laugh, one she desperately hopes sounds a lot lighter than she feels. “Yeah, must be beyond impossible trying to find something that comes close to a Reyes-Jordan rumble. Tough act to follow, even for Greece, huh?”

 

“Impossible,” he agrees, his voice soft and low and husky, and she flinches. She knows that voice. Hell, there’d been a time she’d thought she _owned_ that voice.

 

“Clarke.”

 

She looks up at the sound of him calling her name, and she barely has time to think _too close_ before his hand comes up to press against the side of her face, still warm from where it was tucked against his leg, holding her in place so she doesn’t look or move away — not that she wants to anymore.

 

_Fuck. No. Bad._

“I really missed you.”

 

She’s caught in his gaze, a warm weight settling low in her stomach rendering her unable to pull away despite the volley of alarms and sirens going off in her head. “I missed _you_.”

 

Something in her heart _moves_ at the shift in his eyes, the way they focus on hers a bit more sharply, the brown orbs darkening slightly with a myriad of emotion. She blinks, and shifts her weight a little in a physical attempt to reorient herself, but before she can shake off the haze her cognitive abilities seem to be entirely muted by, his free hand has come up to mirror its twin on the other side of her face and his lips are on hers, warm and familiar and _Bellamy_.

 

She damn near _moans_ at the sensation alone, and gives in almost automatically to the feel of him, hands instinctively pressing to his sides as she absorbs the supple pressure of his mouth on hers, moving in a gentle, tender rhythm every nerve in her body readily sings to. He slides one hand along her neck round to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her loose curls before—

 

She pushes away from him, gasping slightly at the sudden loss of contact. _Breathe, fucking **breathe**  goddamn it. _She feels sensation return to her all at once, her fingers tingling with the rush of it.

 

“We can’t. We’re not—” she says abruptly, blinking back the tears beginning to form in her eyes. She manages to look him in the eyes despite the rising surge, and she _hates_ the fucking _expression_ on his face. She takes a deep breath, ordering herself to ignore the urge to go to him, to wind her arms around his broad shoulders and pull him to her in comfort. “We’re friends. Okay?”

 

He’s just _standing_ there again, that look of being left bereft and _deprived_ threatening to demolish the walls and guards she’d spent months building in his absence. _Fucking walls be damned._ She suddenly decides she can’t bear to hear his response, grabs the open wine bottle, and quickly flees the kitchen.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for sticking through the angst fest! it really helps to know there are people who feel angsty!bellarke as much as or more than i do. the last chapter should be coming within a week! until then, thank you for the kudos and helpful/positive comments!


	3. whenever you want to begin (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the bend and beyond, the two variables find a constant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's finished!
> 
> for anyone wondering, i did write this as one looooong final part. and then i couldn't quite bring myself to impose a nearly 7k-word final chapter on anyone, so they've been split up, purely for easier reading's sake.
> 
> and now, on to the finale.

**707 DAYS BEFORE THE BREAK-UP**

“Okay, now say cheese!”

 

Clarke wrinkles her nose, brushing the tassel of her hat out of her face. “ _Cheese_? Really, Jas?”

 

Jasper looks down from where he’s got his arm hooked around her neck. “Oh come on, no clichés even at your _graduation_?!”

 

The blonde rolls her eyes. “Fine. _Cheese_.” She bares her teeth good-naturedly, and Monty quickly snaps the photo before Jasper can start whinging on about “immortalising the moment”.

 

“Okay, move over, best friends coming through,” Octavia announces, giving the shaggy-haired boy a playful shove as she and Raven swan over to flank the laughing blonde.

 

Jasper bounds over to where Miller’s hanging back at the designated photographer-for-the-day’s shoulder, grinning with the delight and pride one wears when bearing witness to an important milestone in a loved one’s life. “Speaking of, where’s _your_ best friend?”

 

Miller frowns slightly, folding his arms over his chest. “Don’t know. He took off the second hats started flying up in the air — didn’t say where.”

 

Jasper’s brows pull together concernedly as he looks up from flipping through the freshly snapped photos. “Was he mad or something?”

 

Miller shrugs, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “Don’t think so? He was all smiley and shit throughout the ceremony, same as everyone else.” He exhales heavily, tucking the device away. “No reply.”

 

Jasper bounces back and forth on the balls on his feet, a nervous habit that usually triggered everyone else’s nervous habits. (Monty complains that the only reason he’d actually managed to draw blood picking at the dead skin around his nails during the last finals week was his lanky best friend’s unsettling propensity for fidgeting with his entire body.) “Well did he _leave_ , or is he coming back?”

 

A grin suddenly stretches across Miller’s face. “Pretty sure he’s coming back.” He nudges Jasper, nodding towards where the three girls still have their arms thrown around each other, laughing at their own overzealous poses. A slightly out of breath Bellamy has appeared behind them, one hand held behind his back. Miller and Jasper watch as Octavia and Raven pull away to inspect the photos, and Bellamy darts forward to tug on Clarke’s elbow. The blonde turns to face him, and though their little audience is unable to hear the verbal exchange, the smiles on their faces speak for themselves. Bellamy pulls his hand out from behind his back and — Miller yelps slightly as Jasper clamps down on his arm in a death grip and a sharp gasp — presents the newly minted college graduate with a small, simple bouquet of flowers.  

 

“ _Flowers!_ ” The back of Jasper’s hand flies up to his forehead as he swoons dramatically, still holding on to Miller’s arm for support. “He went to get her _flowers_!”

 

This manages to draw the attention of both Bellamy and Clarke, who simultaneously deliver pretty impressive eyebrow arches.

 

“Jesus, Jordan,” Bellamy says, still smiling buoyantly. “It’s her fucking graduation. _Everyone_ gets flowers on graduation day.”

 

He looks down at the grinning blonde and, before either Miller or Jasper can properly register it, wraps his arms around her in a firm hug.

 

Over the commotion of Octavia insisting loudly that “it’s not _graduation_ without a fucking _jump shot_ , damn it!”, Miller’s pretty sure Jasper’s stopped breathing entirely.

 

It only takes about two hours, three celebratory pizzas and three rounds of drinks for Bellamy and Clarke to start fighting again.

 

Miller makes sure to keep his distance from Jasper’s bony fingers for the rest of the day, anyway. Just in case.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**526 DAYS AFTER THE BREAK-UP**

 

“Where the _hell_ is Clarke,” Octavia hisses at her best friend as she’s pouring wine into glasses.

 

Raven shrugs, snagging one of the glasses as she leans her elbows on the kitchen island. “On the way, probably. _Chill_ , O. She’s not gonna miss this.”

 

Octavia huffs over attempts to jam the cork back into the bottle opening. “I know. _I know_. I just… ugh. It’s just these fucking _pregnancy hormones_.”

 

Lincoln strides into the kitchen, retrieving a big tray overloaded with steaming garlic bread from the oven before dropping a kiss on the petite brunette’s head. “Relax, honey. Breathe.” He reaches for the large bowl of salad sitting on the island with his free hand, and disappears from the kitchen. Raven smiles at the sounds of Jasper and Wick’s very loud expressions of appreciation for the arrival of the new offerings as Octavia visibly relaxes, exhaling heavily through her nose as she pours herself a glass of juice.

 

The doorbell sounds throughout the house, and the two share a look. Ten seconds later, their very harried best friend pushes through the kitchen door, complete with thoroughly windswept blonde curls.

 

“Sorry, _sorry_ — had to make a quick detour and _of course_ the fucking cabbie tries to rip me off out on the sidewalk,” Clarke gushes over the flurry of dumping her bag on one of the high chairs at the island and doling out the usual greeting of brief hugs. “Is he gonna be here soon?”

 

 

 

A few minutes after Lincoln sets out steaming trays of fragrant lasagna and “the best fuckin’ eggplant parmesan you’ve ever had in your _life_ ” (as Raven assures a doubtful Wick), Octavia scurries into the living room, waving her phone frantically.

 

“ _He’s_ _here_! Everyone _shut up,_ he’s here!”

 

The conversation that had been bubbling lively throughout the room quickly dwindles down as the muffled sounds of a car pulling into the driveway drift in through the walls. Jasper makes several quick dashes to varying corners of the room in a ridiculous quest to find “the perfect spot!”, nearly toppling the television over from its stand and earning a poisonous glare from Octavia (“no one’s fucking _hiding_ , Jas”). The residual murmurs quickly drop to a tense silence as heavy footfalls land on the steps of the front porch, and the front door is pushed open.

 

“O? Lincoln?”

 

The guest-of-honour appears in the entrance of the living room, and is immediately greeted by a raucous chorus of “happy birthday!” from the waiting party, topped off by a rambunctious shout of “ _SURPRIIIIIISE_ ” sailing over the aural unison. Everyone turns to stare at the culprit, lanky arms still hanging in the air from where he’d thrown them in excitement.

 

Bellamy laughs, ducking his head as his face flushes slightly the way it does whenever all attention is suddenly focused on him.

 

 

 

Two hours later, Miller is playing mediator to Jasper and Wick’s bids for lead singer rights while the rest of the group enthusiastically contributes suggestions for determining the winner. Raven scrolls through lists of songs on the screen, one hand grasping her drumsticks as she settles behind the electronic drum set. Lincoln returns to his seat, curling an affectionate arm around Octavia as she loudly calls for a freestyle rap battle because “ _fuckin’ go hard or go **home** , guys!_”

 

Clarke’s laughing gaze falls on the birthday boy — _birthday man_ , she thinks wryly to herself — from where he’s leaning against the open counter adjoining the kitchen and living room, smiling at Wick’s ridiculous attempt at beatboxing. She pushes off from her perch on the arm of the couch and sidles up beside him, wineglass in hand.

 

“Too old for Rock Band, grandpa?” she teases, propping an elbow up on the counter beside him.

 

He cocks a brow at her and shakes his head, the smile stretching wider. “’Grandpa’? That your best shot, princess?”

 

She shrugs merrily, eyes alight with laughter. “Would’ve gone with _‘the godfather’_ —” he laughs at her ridiculous Marlon Brando impersonation “—but you know, it’s not every day one of us turns the big three-oh.”

 

He grins good-naturedly. “Well, I’m glad you’re getting something out of this too.”

 

“Oh!” She straightens suddenly, setting her glass down on the counter. “Which reminds me. Don’t move.”

 

She returns quickly, clutching a large, oblong package with both hands, which she extends to him cheerfully. “Happy birthday!”

 

He sets his own glass down beside hers to accept the neat brown paper package from her, sincere delight lacing his tone of surprise. “Jesus, princess, you didn’t have to _get_ me anything on your own, too.” The tradition of group birthday presents had rarely been deviated from over the years — everyone agreed it was definitely one of the better group rituals they had. (Any reason to set aside Raven’s insistence on birthday shots, really.)

 

“I know. I just thought thirty’s kind of a big deal. I mean, you survived your twenties, for starters,” she reasons, with a smile and a good-humoured roll of the eyes as he sets about carefully tearing into the wrappings. “Excuse the crap wrapping, would've dressed it up a bit if I wasn't so sure I’d get my head bitten off by your sister for stopping to pick it up after work.”

 

Just as she’s finishing her sentence, he manages to pull off the entire length of the flat side of the brown packaging, and is staring, slightly slack-jawed and unmoving, at the exposed surface of the item within.

 

She curls and uncurls her toes nervously as her arms draw up to wrap tightly across her front. "Sorry, those first editions are fucking impossible to get anywhere _near_ , so I sort of had to give up after about three weeks and settle for a second." She rocks up and down slightly on her bare heels, teeth worrying her lower lip as she watches him runs a finger down the worn cover of the book, barely grazing it. "Is it okay?"

 

His fingers trace over the embossed letters spelling out _The Odyssey_ before his eyes finally tear away from the present to meet her unsure gaze. "It's fucking perfect." 

 

She barely has time to be relieved before a solid arm is hooking around her, and she's firmly pulled into his chest. She reaches up with one hand to press slightly against his back — whether out of trepidation or gladness, she's careful not to wonder too long — and allows herself a tiny burrow of her nose into his shoulder and the smallest of inhalations, head spinning slightly with the dizzying familiarity of him. " _Thank you,_ " she feels him breathe against her temple, low and warm. All too soon, she's released from his hold, and he's grinning that sincere grin that she thinks for the thousandth time rarely makes an appearance on his face nowadays. She can't help but smile in return, fingers finding a steady anchor in the edge of the counter as she takes a slight, refocusing step back. 

 

"It's your fucking thirtieth birthday, Bell," she says lightly, taking up her wineglass once more. “ _Everyone_ gets presents on their birthday.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**446 DAYS BEFORE THE BREAK-UP**

“Come on, princess, I know you’re in there!” Bellamy calls through the door, shifting from one foot to the other as his knuckles rap on the wood in a rapid staccato. “Will you _please_ just open up, I need O’s charger!”

 

The persistent silence causes his frustration to bubble over, and he wrenches at the doorknob in irritation. Said frustration instantly melts into surprise as the handle turns easily in his rough grip, the door readily swinging open. Bellamy peers into the darkened apartment, frowning with uncertainty. _That’s odd. Raven said she’d definitely be home._ He hovers in the doorway for another few seconds before shaking his head decisively and stepping across the threshold. _No problem. Get in, find the charger, get out. Quick and easy,_ he assures himself, groping blindly for the entryway light switch.

 

He’s bent down by the couch, unplugging his sister’s laptop charger from the wall socket in the small living room when he hears it. Music. Not just _any_ music, either.

 

The sound echoes slightly again throughout the apartment, and he decides he would rather take on a burglar than run the risk of Clarke taking on one, and pads stealthily toward the source of the sound. Following the orchestral swells leads him to the bedroom door, and he hesitates uneasily in realisation. _Walk away, Bellamy. She didn’t want to let you in. She doesn’t want to **talk** to you. _

He groans inaudibly before raising a hand to knock lightly on the door. “Princess? You in there?”

 

The music cuts off abruptly. He tenses for a second as his mind starts kicking up an almighty fuss, screaming at him to _fucking run_ before he gets decimated by a pissed off firecracker of a curvy blonde going off on him _(“How the **fuck** did you get in here?! Well why didn’t you **call**?!”_ ).

 

“Yeah, I’m here.” Clarke’s muffled voice drifts out from behind the door, and even though his shoulders drop slightly in relief that he hasn’t set her off, he’s unable to shake the discomfort that churns up in his chest at how strange it sounds. “Did you find O’s charger?”

 

“Yeah, got it.” _Now say goodbye and get out of here._ His feet shuffle themselves closer to the door instead, one hand planting itself on the doorknob. “Can I, uh, come in?” He waits, aware that he's holding his breath.

 

There’s a brief rustling sound behind the door, before— “Okay.” He turns the door knob slowly, nudging his way into the room that is almost entirely dark save for the light of the laptop screen gleaming from where it’s sitting on her bed. His eyes take a minute to adjust — _how the hell is it darker in here than the rest of her apartment?_ — and he squints at the familiar figure sitting up on Clarke’s bed in a tangled mess of sheets and blankets and pillows.

 

“Princess? You okay?” he ventures, taking in the stray wads of used tissues littering the spaces around the bed.

 

“Yeah, fine.” She pushes her laptop out of the way so she can reach for another tissue, blowing her nose loudly. “Did you need something else?”

 

He peers at the screen, now facing him. “Are you — are you watching _Star Wars_?”

 

She exhales heavily, crumpling up the used tissue in her hands. “ _Empire Strikes Back_ , yeah. Look, Bellamy, I’m not really in the mood for—”

 

“Are you crying at _Star Wars_?” The question escapes Bellamy before he can think about it properly.

 

There’s no answer, and Bellamy’s neck heats up uncomfortably. _Great job, Blake. Now you’ve set her off._ He starts to brace himself for another tempestuous argument when she suddenly speaks.

 

“No.”

 

He blinks at her, stunned. It’s pretty obvious by now that she’s been crying, and for a good while at least. The silence stretches on for a few more agonising seconds. He’s just about to concede, mind already haphazardly grasping for some excuse to take his leave when he hears her take a deep breath, face angled away from his gaze to fix on Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker, frozen mid-confrontation.

 

“It’s my dad’s favourite movie.”

 

A week-old memory comes flooding into his brain of Octavia mentioning that Clarke’s dad’s death anniversary was coming up soon, and he reels back slightly in sudden understanding.

 

His silence seems to be prompting enough for her to keep going, her husky voice slowly regaining some of its usual steel as she goes. “He always said Vader was the greatest hero in cinematic history. We used to argue over whether the original was better than the sequels, and he always insisted _Empire_ and _Return of the Jedi_ were more important because they showed Vader for who he really was. He wasn’t good or bad, a Jedi or a Dark Lord — he was a father.”

 

Bellamy’s fingers clench and unclench at his sides. He’s willing to bet that he could count on one hand the number of exchanges he’s had with the blonde that _didn’t_ involve raised voices, barbed insults and wild gesticulations. He’s seen her frustrated, upset, mad as hell — fuck, he’ll own up to being the reason behind it eight times out of ten — but never _sad_ like this before. He clears his throat as unobtrusively as he can, trying to ignore the repeating warnings from his brain that are telling him _don’t fuck up don’t fuck up don’t._

 

“Can’t argue with that, but did he happen to miss the entire bit where the galaxy is somehow saved from doom by a tribe of walking teddy bears?”

 

It’s watery and shaky, but the laugh he manages to elicit from her is unmistakably genuine, and he grins in relief, one hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “God, I _know_. George Lucas is a fucking genius, but Ewoks? _Really_?” Still clutching the tissue in one hand, she reaches out with the other to hit play on her laptop, turning the volume down a couple notches so they can hear each other over the dramatic rise and fall of John Williams’ iconic score.

 

A few minutes later, he’s sprawled out on top of her rumpled sheets, munching on the half-empty pack of Oreos she’d produced from the other side of the bed as they debate the practical logistics of carbonite freezing over the opening text crawl of _Return of the Jedi_.

 

Three hours later, he’s walking back to the apartment he shares with his sister, and he suddenly realises that he didn’t notice her reach for another tissue the rest of the night.

  
The next day, over tacos with Miller and Raven, he can’t quite understand why he feels slightly relieved when he manages to rile Clarke up over whether or not _Kingdom of the Crystal Skull_ was Harrison Ford’s best work of the twenty-first century.

 


	4. whenever you want to begin (2)

 

**439 DAYS AFTER THE BREAK-UP**

Clarke downs the last of her now-lukewarm champagne, making what feels like the thousandth mental note to profusely thank Raven for having helped her pick out a bridesmaid’s dress made out of a material that actually allows one to a) move comfortably, b) get through a summer night without sweat oozing out of places one didn’t even know _could_ ooze sweat and, most importantly, c) _breathe_. She decides after all she’s done for this wedding, the maid-of-honour damn well deserves a minute or two of barefooted bliss. Before she can convince herself otherwise, she slides her aching feet out of the matching heels and lets her eyelids fall shut at the pure, unadulterated pleasure of being _free_.

 

She flexes her feet as best as she can, and smiles to herself when she catches a glimpse of the bride and groom doing absurd versions of the running man, the pair excitedly circled by a gleeful Jasper, video camera in hand. _Say what you want about wedding planning, Griffin,_ she muses, absently tracing the rim of her empty glass with a fingertip, _the shindig itself is always fucking great._

 

It doesn’t take long for her gaze to find the best man, undone bowtie hanging around his neck, undone tux jacket stretching open slightly as he slips his hands into his pockets, eyes sparkling with pride and happiness as he watches his baby sister have the time of her life with the man she loves — a man he’s come to love and respect as a brother over the last couple of years. Clarke can’t help but laugh to herself as the bride shimmies over to Bellamy and pulls him out on the dance floor with her fiancé— _husband_.

 

Raven collapses into the seat beside hers, melodramatically fanning herself with a hand. “ _Seriously_ , only Octavia could be over three months pregnant and _still_ go that hard in the middle of July.”

 

Clarke cracks up again at the note of envious admiration lacing the brunette’s tone of fondness. “Where’s Wick?”

 

“Finding us _sustenance_ ,” Raven waved in the direction of the bar. “Summer weddings and open bars. Now _that’s_ the only match I will ever truly believe is made in heaven.”

 

Clarke grins affectionately at her best friend. “We’ll see if you’re still singing the same tune when it’s your turn.”

 

Raven’s jaw drops, but the joy in her expression diminishes none. “Jesus, Clarke! We’ve been dating _three months_!”

 

“ _Please_.” Clarke rolls her eyes knowingly. “You sped right past the point of no return the day you started gettin’ it on, and you _know_ it.”

 

Raven scoffs, undeniably happy, before the lightness disappears slightly from her smile. “So, um, where’s Lexa?”

 

Clarke looks at her, slightly stunned by both the question and at the realisation that the girl in question — her _girlfriend_ — hasn’t crossed her mind once in the last forty-eight hours. “I, uh — don’t know.” She averts from Raven’s frowning gaze, swiping her blonde curls off her slightly sticky neck with one hand. “Actually, I never… I didn’t ask her to come.”

 

“Oh.”

 

She shrugs nonchalantly — or so she hoped. “Just didn’t really think of it. Been so busy trying to make sure everything’s ready, and… I mean, it’s Octavia and Lincoln’s big night, and she doesn’t know them all that well. Thought it’d be… you know.” Her eyes land on Bellamy again, now jacket-less as he’s half-assing the macarena next to Lincoln’s mother with sheepish enthusiasm.

 

“Weird,” Raven supplies. It’s not a question. Clarke doesn’t answer.

 

“Your drinks, madams!” Wick suddenly appears, brandishing three glasses spread out in two hands. “And this better be some grade-A booze, I nearly had to fight a guy to get there first. Huge Bluto-shaped dude, complete with tattoo sleeves.” He pauses as he’s extending a glass to Clarke, frowning. “Are _all_ Lincoln’s friends on, like, the same steroids or something?”

 

“Probably,” Raven muses, accepting the glass Wick hands her next. “It’s either that or the identical gym-and-protein-shake routines.” All three murmur in agreement, clinking their glasses together before taking deep swigs.

 

“Okay, I’m gonna go tell Monty and Miller to fuckin’ get their disco _on_!” Wick announces. “They _gotta_ have some Bee Gees shit on that laptop.” Downing the rest of his drink, he bends to press a kiss to Raven’s cheek before setting off. “See you in boogie wonderland, babe!” he calls over his shoulder.

 

“Wait till he finds out,” Raven intones with a grin, tearing her affectionate gaze from the retreating blond head to meet Clarke’s. “Miller _hates_ disco.” Hooking an arm around Clarke’s neck, she presses an impulsive kiss to her best friend’s cheek before whisking herself and her glass away from the table.

 

Left in temporary peace once again, Clarke looks back out at the happy chaos of the dance floor. She watches as Octavia and Lincoln spin in a slow circle, pressed up against and completely absorbed in each other despite the buoyant beach-rock instrumentations of The Beatles’ ‘Twist and Shout’. She lets her gaze linger on the couple’s intimate moment for far longer than she should, surprised at how _happy_ it makes her to see how in love her friends are. She spends another minute just taking in their joy, a joy that pervades the atmosphere and lights up the faces of the people around them.

 

She suddenly snaps out of the slight trance with a slight jerk, hastily blinking back tears she hadn’t realised were starting to form. She reaches around her chair for the small purse she’d slung around the back when the dinner had started, flicking open the brass clasp so she can reach into the almost comically small space to retrieve her phone. Opening her messages inbox, she finds Lexa’s name, hovering over the keyboard for a couple seconds before starting to type.

 

 

**hey. we need to talk. what**

**are you doing tomorrow?**

 

 

“You alright, princess?”

 

Her head snaps up to meet Bellamy’s furrowed gaze. Her eyes flit over his flushed form, forehead glistening slightly from the summer air, sleeves rolled up to his elbow in an attempt to cool off overheated olive skin.

 

He’s still waiting for an answer, she realises, dragging her gaze away from where his hands are laying his jacket over his seat with a slight jerk.

 

“Yeah! Yeah, just, er—” She spares a quick glance at the composed message, thumb hovering over the “send” button. “Just needed a break.”

 

He pushes a few stray curls off from where they’re sticking to his forehead, grinning disarmingly. “Well, if you’re done with that, princess — you owe me a dance.”

 

“I do?” she asks, unable to help the smile despite her confusion.

 

“Yeah. You know. The maid of honour, the best man…” her smile widens as he waves his hands about in little circles, searching for a coherent end to his sentence before giving up with a laugh and a shake of his head. “I’m, like, eighty-nine percent sure it’s some kind of wedding tradition _some_ where.” She laughs at that, and so does he, his entire face lighting up as one hand extends in invitation. “Ready?”

 

She hesitates for all of two milliseconds, her thumb pushing down on her screen before she slaps her hand firmly into his, flashing him a wide grin. “Ready.”

 

They end up spending most of the next few minutes doubled over — in uncontrollable fits of laughter rather than rhythm, gasping and pointing at Miller’s expression of extreme pain, headphones around his neck and arms folded in silent protest while Wick and Monty throw themselves into the Y.M.C.A. with all the enthusiasm of a couple of caffeinated six-year-olds.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**179 DAYS BEFORE THE BREAK-UP**

 

“I mean, it’s not like she’s thinking she’s definitely gonna _marry_ this guy, is she,” Bellamy huffs, arms laden with overflowing grocery bags. “They’ve been seeing each other _six months_.”

 

Clarke scoffs as she pushes through her apartment door with her free hand, spinning on her heel to hold it open for him. “I think you mean nine, Bell. As in, almost _a year_.”

 

“ _Almost_ ,” Bellamy counters stubbornly, setting his loads down on her kitchen table and starting to pull items out at random. “The point is, moving in with him, _now_ , is out of the question. It’s _insane_.”

 

The blonde laughs cheerily, dumping her own bag on the table and pulling a bag to her. “She didn’t _say_ she was moving in with him. Her exact words were, ‘Lincoln suggested it’ and ‘we’re thinking about it’.”

 

“ _‘Thinking about it’_ ,” Bellamy echoes, shaking his head as he closes the cupboard he knows Clarke designates for cereal storage. “That’s the problem. She’s too young. Impulsive. She’s not _thinking_ straight.”

 

“Well, when is she going to have your _permission_ to ‘think straight’, then? When she has to shout it to you across the nursing home?” Clarke teases, tugging her fridge door open to put the drinks away. She feigns an exaggerated sigh of resigned sympathy. “Face it, Blake — your baby sis is all of twenty-two, and she’s already got you beat when it comes to healthy romantic relationships.”

 

There’s no answer, and Clarke cranes her head over her shoulder, brows drawn together in concern. The ridges of Bellamy’s back seem even more pronounced with his hands braced wide on her kitchen table, shoulders pushed up in what appears to be a posture of tension. “Bell?”

 

He shifts abruptly, clearing his throat. “Yeah, just thinking about what to do for dinner.”

 

Her frown persists as she reaches for a couple of beers before turning back to him, letting the fridge door fall shut behind her. “I thought we’d settled on that gourmet mac and cheese shit you were bragging about,” she says questioningly, making sure to infuse a hint of challenge in her tone as she reaches for a bottle opener. “Unless you wanna try for a repeat of the mushroom risotto debacle?”

 

He laughs at that, moving to pull a few ingredients out of the second bag he’d left unpacked. “Hey, don’t blame me just ’cause the princess couldn’t lower herself to stir the pot.” Another laugh escapes them both as she punches him in the arm before pretending to dump the contents of his beer bottle over his head.

 

Two hours later, she’s yelling at him over a sink of dirty dishes and he’s shouting back from where he’s wiping down her table and stovetop, and right as she shuts off the tap and whips around to maximise the dramatic impact of her counter-argument, he’s tossing the dirty rag aside and grabbing her face to kiss her for the first time.

 

Several more hours later, with the early morning light streaming in through the window, she comes on her kitchen table for the first time, his head between her thighs as her loud moans mingle with the smell of blackening bacon rising from her frying pan.

 

They also find out, for the first time, that her smoke detector is very much in full, working condition. Which is always good to know.

 

 

* * *

  

 

**590 DAYS AFTER THE BREAK-UP**

“Merry fuckin’ Christmas, ballers!” Raven announces, exhilarated, shoving her seat back to raise her glass high in the air.

 

An exuberant chorus of _“Merry Christmas”_ answers, accompanied by the sounds of everyone scraping back their chairs to clink glasses with her over the table laden with roast turkey, potato salad and ham glazed with a special honey-and-maple concoction of Wick’s own making.

 

“And cheers to Wick and Raven on their _adorable_ new place!” Miller adds loudly, a giant shit-eating grin on his face. “Ain't this just the _quaintest_ little love-nest you’ve ever seen?”

 

Raven throws a cherry tomato at him from the giant salad bowl in front of her. “Enjoy it while you can, Miller. You’re never setting foot in our fucking _adorable_ apartment again.”

 

Warm laughs resound throughout the cosy atmosphere, and the mouthwatering spread manages to occupy everyone’s attention enough to keep relative peace throughout the next hour or so. Despite constant reminders from Miller, Bellamy _and_ Clarke, Jasper manages to talk at the top of his voice with his mouth full throughout the entire dinner. Raven and Monty spend fifteen minutes completely absorbed in animated discussion of an upcoming collaboration their companies are engaging in, with Wick jumping in occasionally and Jasper groaning loudly in protest (“It’s _Christmas_! Don’t we get a break from work crap on _Christmas_?”). Everyone enthusiastically joins in on the Ultimate Christmas Movie debate sparked by Bellamy and Clarke, with very mixed, very heated reactions at Wick’s choice of _Die Hard_ , resulting in more food being flung across the table (mostly by the hostess, fiercely declaring that “it’s a good fucking movie, alright!”).

 

Sometime after her second juice refill, Octavia slowly pushes herself off her seat to carefully make her way to the bathroom, waving off her watchful husband’s offers to help her up.

 

“Holy shit, I forgot — _can_ Octavia eat meat?” Jasper whispers to Monty, not at all softly.

 

Octavia’s voice immediately calls out from outside the open kitchen. “Oh my God, Jas, I’m _pregnant_ , not Buddhist.”

 

Laughter erupts again throughout the group, Miller reaching around Monty to clap Jasper on the back heartily as the dejected boy mutters, unheard, “I knew _that_.”

 

 

 

Another hour later, everyone is spread throughout the modest living room. Jasper, Monty and Miller commandeer the space of floor in front of the television for the best view of _Home Alone_ , making loud bets on who can most accurately remember what comes next. Raven chimes in occasionally from where she’s sprawled out on the armchair, making up random drinking rules to go along with the movie (“Okay, now we take a swig every time they spring a trap. Okay, no, _two_ swigs!”). Bellamy and Wick have their shoulders propped against the far wall as they converse quietly, beer bottles in hand. Octavia is comfortably sandwiched on the little couch between Clarke and Lincoln, who has had one supportive arm around her the second they all rose from the dinner table.

 

“Ugh, I used to think this movie was totally fun and all,” Octavia says darkly, one hand absently rubbing her swollen belly. “Now all I can think of is how many ways I’d kill this one if he ever tried any of this shit.”

 

Clarke snickers at that, one leg bobbing to a lazy rhythm from where it’s dangled over the other. “Zero, O. The answer’s zero. We know as well as you do that this kid is going to be _the_ most spoiled brat in history.”

 

Octavia sighs resignedly, but she’s smiling as she leans her head back against her husband’s arm. “Tell me about it. God, someone else better get pregnant soon. Probably helps if he doesn’t grow up thinking it’s completely normal to have the undivided attention of nine adults, like, all the time.”

 

The brunette follows with a low grumble of “Get on with it, Raven” at the exact same time Clarke mutters, “Go get her, Wick” under her breath. Their heads whip round to face each other before both girls immediately dissolve in peals of laughter, momentarily drawing the attention of the avid _Home Alone_ audience.

 

“What?” Raven asks in puzzlement, frowning when her best friends’ laughter only seems to get worse in response. “What!”

 

 

 

“New year, new you, eh?”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes at Bellamy’s teasing smirk, lit up by streetlamps and the surrounding buildings. He knows for a _fact_ that she _hates_ when anyone says that. She briefly considers flipping him off, the way she would do if it were Miller or Jasper, but finds herself reaching out habitually to punch him in the arm before turning away to lean her elbows on the railing of the fire escape, not bothering to hide the telltale traces of a smile.

 

“Goddamn it, Blake. I’m a big-shot curator now. Can’t have these _clichés_.”

 

He grins unabashedly at her before ducking his head slightly, bringing his beer bottle to his lips. “Does that mean I shouldn’t tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”

 

She freezes up at that — but it passes quickly, more of an automatic reaction than a genuine wariness or realisation of a need to tread carefully. The slight laugh she lets loose relaxes her, a lot more than she’d thought it would. “I’ll allow it. Seeing as it’s Christmas and all.”

 

“So, _big-shot curator_ ,” his smile widens at her drawn-out groan, “alright, alright, _princess_ — any New Year’s resolutions to go along with the shiny new sceptre of power?”

 

“Nah,” she shakes her head, smiling idly. “You know I’ve always been pretty shit at those.”

 

“Me too,” he confesses, eyes cast down to where he’s swirling the last of his beer round and round. “Doesn’t seem to stop me from making them, though.” His eyes move up to meet hers at that, holding her gaze with an unexpected intensity.

 

“Oh yeah?” she asks lightly, unable to understand the significant quickening of her heartbeat. “What’s _Professor_ Bellamy Blake _resolving_ for next year, then?”

 

“Same as the last few years,” he shrugs, the nonchalant action clashing with the deliberate way his dark eyes continue to fix on hers. She lets herself be drawn in, slightly reeling at his refusal to rise to the bait.

 

“What’s that?” She doesn’t let herself think about the way her own voice has dropped a couple notches to match his.

 

Something flashes in his steady gaze, and somehow she doesn’t quite succeed at convincing herself it was a trick of the light. “You.”

 

Silence. She blinks, suddenly realising how small the distance between them has become. She’s also acutely aware of how _loud_ her own breathing seems to her, every slight rise and fall seemingly amplified tenfold.

 

Bellamy just _stands_ there. Right in front of her. Leaning in. Waiting.

 

She allows herself three more seconds of stillness. Holding back. Waiting.

 

She reaches up to pull his face down to hers, and his arms wrap around her so quickly she wonders if they haven’t been there all along.

 

 

 

They’re conspicuously late to brunch the next day, hair and clothes in disarray. A very hung-over Jasper demands “where the hell have you guys _been_ ” through a mouth stuffed full of syrupy pancake. They exchange a glance, flushing slightly as they settle into their seats. Raven claps a hand over her mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to muffle her exclamation of “Oh my _God_ ”. Monty’s jaw drops open in stunned anticipation. Miller and Wick are already grinning ear to ear. Octavia grips Lincoln’s arm _hard_ , tears clouding up her clear green eyes.

 

“Just, you know—” Bellamy answers, eyes still glued to Clarke’s face, all pink and glowing. “Making sure Clarke’s smoke alarm works.”

 

As he struggles to properly chew his overambitious mouthful, Jasper’s eyes dart skeptically between the two still smiling at each other, oblivious to the emotional reactions around the table. “At ten A.M. on _Boxing Da_ —”

 

Clarke sighs sharply and cups a hand around the back of Bellamy’s neck, yanking him to her for a hard kiss.

 

Jasper’s fork clangs to the floor.

 

Clarke abruptly releases Bellamy, slightly breathless as she turns to cock a brow at the wide-eyed, slack-jawed boy. “That clear enough for you?”

 

Jasper spends the next twenty minutes blubbering through “emotions, _my emotions!_ ”, managing to completely clean out the contents of their table’s napkin holder, much to their waitress’s annoyance.

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

**1,091 DAYS AFTER THE BREAK-UP**

  

“Hey, princess.”

 

“God, you have no idea how fucking _good_ your voice sounds right now.”

 

“If it’s anything like yours, I’ve got a pretty good idea. Goddamn wonderful.”

 

“I miss you.”

 

“Miss you too, princess. So much.”

 

“How the fuck did we get through six months of this shit.”

 

“Well, for starters, you were still busy pretending you didn’t care.”

 

“Do we have to get into this again?”

 

“No, we don’t, and we’ll never fucking have to ever again.”

 

“Thank God.”

 

“I do. Every day. And don’t think I can’t hear you rolling your eyes at me.”

 

“Cliché.”

 

“Emotionally constipated.”

 

“Bell?”

 

“Princess.”

 

“I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

 

“Trust me, Clarke. It can’t come soon enough for me.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“I love you, princess. So fucking much.”

 

“Shit. I gotta go. Think Raven’s got up to pee. Again.”

 

“Me too. Miller’ll kill me if he sees.”

 

“Tell him to take a number. We’ve got plans tomorrow.”

 

“Yes, we do. Get some rest, princess. ’Night.”

 

“’Night, Bell.”

 

 

 

Eight hours later, Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake exchange vows and rings in front of forty-seven of their loved ones.

 

There isn’t a dry eye to be found amongst those in attendance by the time the couple get to the I do’s. The rest of the ceremony goes off without a hitch — save for the gathering’s momentary shock when the groom kisses the bride and best man Nathan Miller instantly dissolves into an incoherent mess of noisy, wailing sobs and violently heaving shoulders, held upright only by Jasper Jordan’s cheerfully supportive arm.

 

 

 

Eight years later, Bellamy Blake settles in with great glee to retell the story of Uncle Miller going through two packs of dinner napkins during his best man’s speech to the straw-haired, freckled little boy wondering where his middle name came from. (The boy was especially surprised to learn that Uncle Miller, like everyone else, had a first name after all.)

 

“Miller’s going to be so sad you told Jake that story,” his wife informs him a few minutes later, as they’re settling into bed. “You promised you’d tell him together.”

 

“Ah, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Bellamy wraps an eager arm around her middle, pulling her closer as he nuzzles into her neck. “I won’t tell him. Not yet.”

 

“No, you won’t. Which is why I texted him an hour ago.”

 

“... Princess.”

 

“Professor.”

 

He groans, dropping his forehead to her shoulder. “Traitor.”

 

“Cliché. ’Night, Bell.”

 

“’Night, my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be completely honest i feel like my brain just had to make up for all the prior angst somehow and that is why that mountain of unapologetic fluff spewed out all over the last few pages i don't even. 
> 
> and that's a wrap on 'whenever you want to begin'! thank you so much for reading, for the kudos and bookmarks and the comments. every little response means so much more than you can imagine.


End file.
